


Blackened (Bird's Nest Hair)

by LilithEncodead



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:04:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithEncodead/pseuds/LilithEncodead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Rook is brought in to inspect a most unusual specimen, which exudes both a pitiful and hateful aura. A most unusual corpse indeed (One-Shot) hinted other characters. [WRITTEN BEFORE S5 AIRED]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackened (Bird's Nest Hair)

It had them quite baffled. “Them” being the lower down’s to the higher up’s, the greenest and lowest of their order - the lackeys, who should know better. They, only days after the unexpected explosions at the docks, had uncovered it: thrown out with the bins disguised as regular, ordinary household waste, in Barry, at approximately 07:09 am that morning.  
Everyone who matters is awake at seven in the morning. There was no _“could have been seen”_ about it; they, and their specimen were seen. How could anyone have missed them, in such plain sight? It was sloppy. Worse than that, it was infuriating.  
It was a peculiar thing (and had been so nearly, and so carelessly overlooked, by feather-brained fools). They - four young men - filed quickly out into the corridor; binning their disposable aprons and gloves, straightening their suits, not even daring to look Mr Rook in the eyes - dead-set beneath curling eyebrows, still and cold as frosted ice.  
He slipped his pocket-watch away disparagingly, its ticking still beating at the back of his mind, incessant as curiosity. From hearsay, quick notes, and vague whispers, he believed he already knew what awaited him on the other side of the door. Though, he could not voice this with concrete certainty. Expectations were made to be broken - even more so, on their particular side of the looking glass, where the wonders never ceased to deceive; folding and warping the facts of truth and logic to suit their sick, distorted preference. He daren’t make presumptions on such matters.  
Disinfected, with plastic gloves and apron pulled, stretched and secured, he entered the room. Silent, spotless and mirrored on all sides, the small room gave the impression of being larger, as if it were continuously expanding around him. He stood at the centre of the room, with the table before him, as his reflection stretched out in all four directions of a compass - like the spilt shadow of a pin in direct sunlight. Rook’s own shadow hid beneath his shoes, tightly compacted, and threatened by the many bright lights, leaving the shining, tooth-white floor unsullied.  
Upon the table was a cloth, draped over a raised lump, about the size of a dead dog. Only vague impressions of shadow lay upon it, indicating nothing of what it was shrouding. A quiet confidence crept though him, as echoes of his theory whispered back to him.  
Delicately and without hesitation, he pinched the cloth and folded it over to reveal what lay underneath.  
A quick burst of a singed, stale stench rose into the air and settled in the room. On the table lay something rarely seen. A corpse - a sight that is, arguably, all too frequently seen - curled in on its self, atop a bed of torn, black bin-bag, fused with the figure but burst open, like the remains of a stillborn birthing sack. The figure was greatly reduced in size from what it would have been. The bulk of its mass had been burnt away. Its skin was charred the darkest charcoal black all over, inch-to-inch, top to toe. All of its hair had been reduced to dust, and the ashen folds of what could have been any manner of clothing appeared the same uniform tone of black. Any contents within its pockets were surely gone - no wallet, or photographs - there was nothing to put a name to this ex-creature. A figure without identity, nor traceable history.  
The body appeared the image of fragility. Flame-withered arms were bent jaggedly in on its collapsing chest, its legs drawn tightly to its hollowed belly, weakly imitating the security of the foetal position. Its - by now, Rook assumed the specimen male, though he would not hold any store in the presumption - head was bowed, as if wincing. The facial expression was near impossible to read. The delicate details of the eyebrows and eyelashes were gone. His lips were all but crumbled away, indistinguishable from his jaw, and voiceless as the bone. However, there were the remains of what appeared to have been a straight nose, and sloping, strong brow. This, coupled with the specimen’s withered cheeks and lifelike position rather reminded Rook of the mummified corpses of the Inca tribes. Not the emperors, or queens, or even their pets - but the peasants who died out in the wastes of land, dried by the sun, buried by sand, and preserved by the natural minerals of the earth, alone. An eternal image of neglect and suffering.  
Tied around the specimen’s wrist (with a white string, instantly blackened) was a tag, like a gift tag - upon which was a serial number, along with the date and time it was found… and a gap. A space, a void, where Rook was to identify the creature. When he went to lift the tag, a great amount of the specimen’s wrist rubbed away on his gloved knuckles, like soot, black and almost sparkling. He did not flinch; he only looked down with mildest surprise and distaste.  
Idiots. They should have tagged such a delicate thing on its toes.  
A subtle noise crackled in the corner of the room, as a speaker turned on, before a clear, if somewhat boxed voice spoke: “Any luck, sir?”  
“Yes; there will be no need for any further inspection,” Rook replied mildly “Especially by that division… it’s a wonder this specimen survived them.”  
“Is it all in one piece?”  
“No. There is a significant reduction to the stomach, chest and facial features. I fear we’ll not be able to identify the poor fellow…”  
“But what _is_ it, sir?” the voice enquired, with a tone Rook didn’t much like.  
“Surely someone must have guessed at it?” he replied, checking his own tone.  
“I’m afraid not, sir.” The speaker crackled as the voice - or the mouth of the voice - drew away from the microphone.  
“Type 02.” He stated clearly, his voice bouncing back to him in the small room; whilst the blackened figure lay behind him on the table, without ears, or consciousness to know it was being spoken about. A lingering pause followed, flooding the room, before the speaker sighed:  
“… I’m afraid you’ll have to indulge me, sir.”  
Indeed. He would have to indulge him, as if his time were not precious - as the ticking of the watch in his breast pocket seemed to rise, like pressure at the back of his mind.  
“He - assuming it is male - must have been an unwelcome guest at…” Rook checked the specimen’s label again, finding that the words inscribed upon it would not suit his tongue at all “Honolulu Heights… for when a creature, such as this, attempts to cross a threshold without first being welcomed inside, they gradually burst into flame --”  
“--very grisly.” the speaker interrupted.  
“Indeed.” he continued “However, it appears this fellow was extremely unwelcome; examining the cavity in his chest, right the way through his back --”  
“You believe him to have been “staked”?”  
The continuing interruptions were growing to be a little irksome, though, there was no mark of this in his brow; perhaps a slight curling in his lip:  
“He was staked, yes.”  
“Pardon my asking, but if that is the case why was the specimen not reduced to dust?”  
“And there, my hypothesise grows vague…” Rook admitted thoughtfully “It is possible that, if the creature were staked upon entry, the already occurring process of his burning would negate the other, but then… I will have to research it further.”  
“Right you are,” replied the speaker, as if the conversation had got away from him “It is a peculiar case, isn’t it, sir? But then again, I suppose those Type 02’s are a peculiar lot.”  
“Most unusual.” he replied dismissively, as his grey eyes wondered through the room, and then through the mirrors.  
Rook was - he knew, he was - alone in the room, apart from the specimen. But there had been a movement that did not pertain to him, he had seen it - perhaps in the mirrors, perhaps in the shadows - but there were no shadows, not even his own. It may have been a flickering of the light (as so often happens), or a movement as slight as that. However, such things do not come with such a “feeling”. An enclosing sense spreading throughout the mind, like a sudden drop in air pressure. It grows, until it seizes the room, tainting the space with its dark claim, tightening around the walls in a firm grip.  
The fragile figure on the table no longer seemed to lie still, though no movement was made. It no longer seemed ignorant to the goings on of the room, although its eye-sockets were burnt empty, its lids were shut, and its ears fallen away. As the sense grew, Rook remained still as stone, watching the corner of the mirror opposite him. He caught no glimpse of his own reflection, standing with the poise and hate of Medusa, wearing an expression that would freeze even his own heart.  
The slight shadow of a figure wavered in the very corner of the mirror (vague as a depleting, far away sound). With draining persistence, and much effort, Rook caught some brief, minuscule details of it: bird’s nest hair, coupled with a hunched posture, frustration and ambition seeded in its heart, ripping its chest apart violently. Vanity fell away from its flesh, shedding away in layers, as hungry embers began crawling through his skin, over his scalp, and searing his finger-tips like candle flames. It gave no sound, no noise, and no voice, except for the far-off echoes of screams.  
The presence was growing weaker. Rook could feel the room growing cold, as the faintest shadow furrowed his brow, with the increasing concentration that came over him. He could feel its distress as he held it there. It squirmed. It fought him, as if kicking against him. In a flash, it left the impression of crystal-blue eyes, widened with desperation, like depleting chemical stains --  
And then it was gone.  
The white mirrored room settled again; the mirrors resumed giving the illusion of an expanding space, almost like an exhaling sigh of relief. Disappointment lingered with Rook as he eyed the charred corpse thoughtfully, before he addressed the speaker again after a pause:  
“I shall leave it in your care, then?” he asked casually.  
“Indeed you may.” answered the voice, before adding more brightly “Have a good day, sir.”  
“And the same to you.” Rook replied, purely out of courtesy, before swinging the door behind him with a muffled sound - leaving the specimen silent, and lonely.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N This was a bit of a tricky thing to write. The title especially gave me problems, as it was just going to be “Bird’s Nest Hair” but then I thought people would (before reading) make the connection of _Mr Rook > Rook > Bird > Bird’s Nest, _ which is meaningless and completely irrelevant to the story, and therefore, is no connection at all. My listening to Queen Adreena’s song “Birdnest Hair” when I had the idea for the fic also had some baring on this ^^”  
> On another note, I know vampires don’t have ghosts in the canon universe - I blame twitter for this slip. I’d also like to point out that he didn’t appear as a “proper ghost.” I know, I know. It’s a plot-hole - there’s no wriggling out of it.  
> So shoot me.  
> Thank you very much for reading! As always, all feedback is welcome. I am a bird, humbly bowing to you, pecking at your feet for any crumbs you choose to drop me.


End file.
